


Immovable Object

by sffan



Series: Physics [2]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: F/M, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7525264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sffan/pseuds/sffan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yohji is getting the cold shoulder from Aya. So he goes clubbing. Did I mention this was a cliché-ridden series yet?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immovable Object

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is from a previous archive, written between 2002 and 2008. No additional changes or edits have been made since it’s original posting date and none will be.  
> 
> Original Notes:  
> Great big thanks to emungere for the beta and for having a copy of this in her email. Without her, this story would not exist because due to computer issues, the contents of my C: drive disappeared.

Yohji sits in the window seat, tapping ashes out of the open window. He lets his head rest against the wall and sighs – and then laughs derisively at himself. It’s his own damn fault. He should have pressed his advantage when he’d had the chance. Aya had been there, in his room, on his bed *touching* him, allowing himself to be touched. And instead of wrapping his arms around Aya and pulling him down onto the bed and giving him what his eyes had so silently been begging for, Yohji had let him go. Let him go, thinking that now that the ice was broken, he’d have all the time in the world.

Yohji snorts. All the goddamn time in the world, all right. The past week has been absolute hell. If anything, Aya was even more frigid and distant than before – avoiding Yohji as much as possible, going so far as to switch shifts around so that they didn’t work together. Yohji had tried several times to speak to Aya, only to be rebuffed by a harsh word or a cold glance.

“Fucking ice princess,” Yohji mutters to no one and flicks his cigarette out of the window. He watches as it sails down and hits the pavement below. “Well, fuck you, asshole. I tried. I’m done.”

He slides off the window seat and makes his way to his closet and starts digging through it. “Ah, here we go, just what I was looking for.”

Yohji unfastens the belt of his silk robe and lets it fall to the floor. He shucks off his underwear and then shimmies into a pair of tight-fitting, obscenely low-slung black suede pants. He slides his closet door closed so that he can see himself in the mirror and then, using his reflection, laces up the front of the pants. Yohji grins at his reflection and then reaches into the pants to adjust himself appropriately.

Moving to his dresser, Yohji sorts through his shirts until he finds what he’s looking for – a tight, deep purple crop top that leaves far more skin exposed than covered. He pulls the tie out of his hair and runs his fingers through it, until it has just the right amount of “just fell out of bed” look to it.

He slips on his boots, zips them up, fishes the three-quarter length black suede jacket that goes with the pants out of the back of the closet and throws it on. Yohji grabs his wallet, pack of cigarettes, and lighter and drops them into the inside pockets. He pauses at the mirror for one last check, slips his sunglasses on, and then leaves his room. Yohji takes the stairs down two at a time and doesn’t bother to hide the smirk as Ken nearly falls off his chair when he catches sight of him.

“Close your mouth, Ken, you’ll catch flies,” Yohji says, grinning at the other man when he abruptly closes his mouth and turns away with a frown.

“Wow, Yohji, you look…” Omi starts, eyes wide.

“Like a whore,” Aya finishes coldly.

“Aya!” Omi exclaims, “That’s not nice!”

“It’s okay, Omittchi,” Yohji says, ruffling Omi’s hair, “I don’t expect manners from Aya. You think I look good, don’t you?” Yohji runs his fingers slowly down his chest, getting some satisfaction from the way Aya’s eyes follow his hands.

Omi blushes and nods.

Yohji smiles at him and says, “Great. I’m out of here. Don’t wait up kittens; I’m gone for the night.”

Once outside, he flags down a cab – best not to bring the Seven, he’s planning on getting fairly drunk and he’d just have to leave the car at the club. When they arrive, he tosses some money at the driver and gets out. He nods to the doorman – they know him well here – and he enters. The techno music hits him like a wall, the heavy beat already thrumming through him, the flashing lights dazzling his vision. Yohji pauses by the door, allowing his eyes to adjust, and then makes his way to the bar.

Yohji greets the bartender and orders his usual. While he waits for his drink, he lights up a cigarette, thanking all the powers that there are still a few places that allow smoking on the premises. He inhales deeply, savouring the way the nicotine fills his lungs, and then exhales slowly. His drink arrives and he gulps it down, asking for another before the glass even hits the bar.

Yohji lingers a bit longer over the second one, scanning the dance floor in the mirror behind the bar. He had hoped going out would take his mind off Aya, but it hasn’t. He can’t seem to stop thinking about those long, sword-callused fingers caressing his skin, or the pale pink flush of arousal mixed with embarrassment on Aya’s ivory skin.

“Fuck,” Yohji mutters, finishing his drink. He’s about to just get up and go home when he spots her on the dance floor – tall, slender, red hair – and he grins. ‘Why the hell not?’ he asks himself. If he can’t have Aya, he might as well have the next best thing. He butts out his cigarette and turns toward the floor. He shrugs off his coat and leaves it in the bartender’s care, knowing from past experience that it will be safe. He slips off the stool and gracefully joins the crowd on the dance floor. He glides through the moving bodies until he’s close to his target.

And then Yohji closes his eyes and begins to move. His hips sway sensuously to the music; his hands move along his body – up and down his chest, hips, thighs – drawing eyes like flies to honey. Yohji opens his eyes slowly and looks right at the girl and gives her his sexiest smile. She flushes and ducks her face behind a wall of hair. After a few moments she looks up, and he slowly reaches a hand out to her. She moves towards him. Yohji suppresses a smile of satisfaction.

They end up back at her place. Yohji presses her face down in her own bed and fucks her hard from behind, biting his lip to prevent himself from calling out the wrong name as he comes. He rolls off her as soon as he’s done and starts getting dressed. She looks at him, and says with a bit of anger in her voice, “Not staying, then?”

“Can’t,” Yohji says a bit abruptly. “Have somewhere I need to be.” Ignoring the hurt look on the girl’s face, Yohji leaves. He feels sick. He’s never treated a woman like this before. Yes, he plays around, never getting serious, rarely seeing a girl twice, but he always treated the girls he takes to bed with a modicum of respect. He didn’t even bother asking her name.

He couldn’t. It would have ruined the fantasy.

It’s almost dawn and he feels like crap, so, of course, Aya’s sitting in the communal kitchen when he walks in the back door.

“Good night, then?” Aya asks, sipping his tea.

Yohji can’t even summon up the energy to lie. “Not really,” he says and keeps going past Aya to the stairs. He’s not sure what makes do it – maybe it’s because Aya never waits up for him or maybe he's just tired – but he stops and says, “Aya?”

“What?” Aya’s voice is flat and cold.

Yohji holds back a sigh of defeat and replies, “Nothing,” before continuing up the stairs.


End file.
